Consider for a moment, if you will, the poison-arrow frog.

Probably the second thing you will think of is that it is tiny, a fingernail-sized amphibian set against the vastness of its jungle home. Compared to a common frog, such as you will find in any garden pond, the poison-arrow frog is a dwarf.

But the first thing you will likely think of is that it is lethal without antidote, so deadly that even brushing its back lightly with your finger could be fatal. One does not touch the poison-arrow frog. One does not go out with a net and grand designs on bringing a bucketful of them home to keep in the greenhouse, as you would with common frogs.

The important thing about the poison-arrow frog is its innate desire not to have to use its poison. It is coloured every colour of the rainbow, reds, oranges, greens: stripes, spots, blazes of colour. The poison-arrow frog doesn't want you to touch it, so it warns you in a way that speaks to your oldest instincts: beware, ape, for here is something lethal. Common frogs have an irresistible appeal, especially to small human children, because of their honest simplicity.

Poison-arrow frogs are complicated things, death wrapped up in a tiny, innocuous package, nevertheless shouting their warning: common frogs can always and only be just what they are.

"Brother!"

Loki thinks: that it's worth the pain. By everything and all, by the trunk of the Tree and the arch of the Bridge, it's worth the pain. And he hates himself for it.

"Brother!"

Thor. His voice alone could bring down mountains. Everything about him is larger than seems possible. His arms gathering the fallen god of mischief feel like the coils of Jormungandr. Endless. Powerful. Thor could carry the world slung from his belt. He can easily carry Loki.

Except that Loki doesn't want him to.

"Brother, brother, I swear to you that for this I will bring them down to dust!"

Even Thor's words are big. Loki's words are small, insidious, a shoal of silver remora orbiting the belly of the whale shark. Big things bite hard and only once, and they must hope it's enough. Little things must take little bites as they can and wear their quarry down.

Loki hates fish, wonders where the analogy currently buzzing in his mind comes from, and considers that this must be delirium. The pain is actually almost indescribable, which luckily means it's gone beyond unbearable and into practically interesting. He watches it for a while, plays with the levels of physical agony in his head. The mind is such a powerful thing. A good thing people like Thor are so adorably unable to use that power.

A hiss escapes his lips as Thor lifts him. His skin tries to shrink back from the thunder god's touch, lips drawing back from his teeth in revulsion like a cat that's tasted something nasty. His eyes are still open, and in the pained blur of his vision he sees Thor's golden hair, his beard, and the blurring haloes Odin's eldest son as if in glorious sunshine.

"Easy, brother," comes the voice, with a flash of brilliantly white teeth. "I have got you."

If Loki had been able to move without shooting agony piercing every fibre of his torso, he would have wriggled, trying to get away. He is steeped in disgust. If he were a sponge, you could have squeezed him and watched a torrent of vitriol pour out.

-don't touch me don't touch me don't TOUCH me -

And Thor crushes him to his immense chest as if he is cradling a baby, Loki's black-haired form straggling untidily under the sweep of the red cloak. Mjolnir in one club-like fist, Thor sets about beating them a clear path through the snarling Jotunn to safety. Loki considers many things in that moment. He considers how mortifying it will be to return to Asgard in Thor's arms. He considers that death would almost be preferable. He considers that he could use what remains of his failing sorcery to stab Thor; not fatally, just a little, just enough to make him drop him and leave him be.

His brother's ridiculous muscles bunch and flex against Loki's battered body as he fights them free. Loki considers, crazily, that he feels safe for the first time in years, and hates Thor even more than he hates himself in that moment. How terrible a weakness it is, to need to be wanted. To be looked after by someone who cares. How unbearable it is to want such a weak, simple thing so very much. But another part of him thinks: it's worth the pain. By everything and all, by the trunk of the Tree and the arch of the Bridge, it's worth the pain.

"Brother!"

Thor thinks: my brother is badly hurt. By everything and all, by the trunk of the Tree and the arch of the Bridge, I will move anything, kill anything, do anything, to save him.

And he is quite sure, when he feels a spear of Loki's icy sorcery jab painfully but not effectually into the exposed flesh of his inner elbow, that it cannot be Loki's fault.